“No,” JD said. “Worse. Her mother is. District court. Civil and criminal overlap through half this town, and her father’s development company owns enough land to make people smile when they’d rather spit. You blew up the wrong girl’s graduation present.”
“She did,” Jake said quietly.
JD looked at him.
Jake did not flinch. “Destiny did. Not us. Not the club. And she was drugged.”
“Good,” JD said. “Hold onto that spine. You’re going to need it.”
Nyla whispered, “Are we going to jail?”
Nobody answered fast enough.
That was answer enough.
JD dragged a hand over his jaw and looked toward the stairs. “Where’s Edge?”
“Upstairs,” Callum said again.
“Get him.”
Nobody moved.
Not because they didn’t hear.
Because dragging Edge away from Destiny right now felt like asking a wounded bear to leave its cub in a room full of knives.
JD looked up the stairs and raised his voice.
“Edge.”
The clubhouse held its breath.
A few seconds passed.
Then Edge appeared at the top landing.
He looked like hell.
Not outlaw hell. Not blood-on-his-knuckles, bodies-in-the-ground hell. Father hell. His hair was mussed from his own hands, his cut gone, black shirt streaked with Destiny’s blood. His eyes were red around the edges but dry. That somehow made it worse. A man like Edge did not waste tears when rage could keep him upright.
“How is she?” JD asked.
“Sleeping. Off and on.” Edge came down two steps, then stopped like the distance from his daughter physically hurt. “Doc’s watching her pulse. Regan’s with her.”
“Good. Then listen.”
Edge’s jaw flexed.
Wrong opening.
Every man in the room felt it.
JD didn’t care.
“This is not a clubhouse cleanup.”
Edge came down another step. “My daughter is not taking the fall for rich kids drugging her and torturing her for years.”
